Stalker
by Kaito The Shadow Wrya
Summary: The dragonborn never minded having fans. After all, she was the dragonborn. But this one is really starting to scare her...
1. Thalmor Bitch

The air was cold and humid, as if it were to rain, as our protagonist trudged on her way to Riverwood.

You may be wondering, who this protagonist is. Well, she is the dragonborn.

But she doesn't know that yet, of course.

She was haggard and weary, having just escaped Helgen about three hours ago with one of the Stormcloak soldiers. _'What was his name again? Olaf? Raland?' _She thought as she stomped on some perfectly good mushrooms. They had split up two hours ago so she could asses the land for herself and try and regain her bearings. She'd never been to Skyrim in her life before now and had no clue what the landscape was even like. She knew the names of the cities were, she wasn't stupid of course, but that was literally as far as her knowledge of Nord territory went. Well, other than there are Nords, of course.

Anyway, she was on her way down the path she thought _might _lead to Riverwood after getting the blessing of the Warrior stone. Altmer like her tended to lean more towards magic, but she was more interested in weapons work. Of course normal Altmer usually were recruited into the Thalmor as soon as they can shove a stick up their own ass, but her mother was _very _persistent in keeping her from such stupidity and bigotry, thankfully.

She looked like a troll, with all that dirt and blood caked on her face and body, as if she spent those three hours rolling in mud and corpses. Her hair was damaged beyond repair and she was sure that she was missing a tooth at least, or maybe she had just chipped one. Her shabby, cheap imperial armour was obviously made by little argonian children in dusty old shacks and the iron sword she had been provided looked like a lump of slag on a stick.

At least she still had all of her fingers.

She soon saw the village Riverwood ahead of her and had to stop herself from running forward and singing. _'Yes, civilization!' _She nearly shouted aloud as she schooled herself and walked in as calmly as possible._  
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Some people stared at her as she walked past, but who wouldn't? She looked like a bandit that had just escaped a raid-gone-wrong.

"Irna, get off the roof!" Shouted a small blond boy to her left, flailing his arms around. On a regular occasion she would have ignored him, because nord children do stupid things like that all the time anyway.

"One stupid minute, Frodnar, I think I see the dragon," said a little nord girl with a mop of blonde hair on her head. She was holding something akin to a telescope to her eye, but it looked like a stick with glass at the end, with some measly pieces of rope holding it together. "Yeah, I think that's it. Let me focus..."

"A dragon?" Asked the dragonborn, craning her head to see the pathetic looking child on the roof with her pathetic telescope and pathetic friend.

The kid dropped the 'telescope' and fell from the roof of the inn into a pile of hay and dog dung. Her head poked out and she spat some scat from her mouth, fuming.

"Stupid Thalmor bitch!" She screeched in a rage, tossing some scat at our protagonist. She caught it in her hand and tossed it behind her into a cabbage cart that both looked and smelled two weeks older than fresh.

"First of all, a Thalmor bitch would have cut out your throat with her pointy teeth before she even spoke to you," said our protagonist haughtily, dodging another piece of hurled dung, "and secondly, she would have not one but _two _huge spiky sticks up her ass, pushed up so far you can see them behind her teeth."

The girl leaped from the pile, feces hanging from her hair, and stuck up her middle finger before grabbing her broken toy and stomping off into the inn, her friend in tow. Townspeople stared at our protagonist as this spectacle went on, before marching back to their meager lives.

The dragonborn dusted off her suit fruitlessly and trudged off to the blacksmith and attempted to sell him some of the bloodstained broken armor for enough gold to buy a jug of cheap wine.


	2. Wordwall

After finding the Stormcloak soldier in Riverwood, whom was actually named Ralof of all things, our protagonist was practically begged to traverse to the city of Whiterun, which was a stones throw away from Riverwood, but Gerdur or whatever her name was insisted that she couldn't leave her miserable town for even a day. The Dragonborn felt the need to repay her debt to the Stormcloak, so she walked for five minutes down some trail before she saw the city of Whiterun, which looked like a palace compared to Riverwood.

She was stopped by a Ginger nord with angry green warpaint standing over a giants corpse. The girl demanded to know why she hadn't helped them defeat the giant whom smelled like it was dead for hours.

Our protagonist gave her the finger and chopped off one of the nasty toes off the giant for some quick cash.

Then when the altmer woman attempted to enter the city, she was stopped by a short guard man with a pot belly and mead stains on his shirt.

"Gate's closed," he said, lifting his helmet to spit on her foot, the one with the shoe. _I've been in Skyrim like seven hours and I already hate everyone_, she thought coarsely.

"I have news for the Jarl," the dragonborn persuaded, "about the dragon attack." The guard scratched his ass and opened the gate, giving our protagonist entry to the city of Whiterun. She entered the city, but not before spitting on his helmet, making sure all of the crusty blood in her mouth flew into his eye holes.

Our protagonist asked around about the city and Jarl, and got a general gist of the place within forty five minutes. She found that she hated everyone in the wind district and almost everyone in the market district save for the Blacksmith Adrianne and the innkeeper, whom let her drink one free cup of her cheapest mead. Sadly cheap mead often has little alchohol and the dragonborn was left all too sober for her liking.

She was able to get a price for her giants toe and some spider poison she had on her person from the town alchemist and had enough money for one night at the inn. The dragonborn then sold her dismal iron sword for enough money for a couple cups more of the cheap mead.

Her first day in Skyrim was absolutely horrible.

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><p>As soon as she had even stepped in to Dragonsreach our Protagonist had a sword pointed at her gut. A beefy dunmer woman stood behind the sword, sneering at The Dragonborn like she murdered her family or ate her child.<p>

"What is your business here? The Jarl is in a meeting and is not to be disturbed," she spat, pushing her well made sword closer to our protagonists flesh to the point where she had to suck in her gut just to keep her from drawing blood.

"Irileth, let her speak," said the Jarl, beckoning our protagonist to come forward. Irileth moved her blade but kept her battle stance as the altmer approached, ready to be called 'Thalmor Bitch' for the umpteenth time by some stinky nord. She was pleasantly surprised when she was spoken to like an actual person, and that he didn't smell like dead animal.

Our protagonist told him what she knew about the attack on Helgen, and about how defenseless Riverwood was against it if it were to attack them. A balding man with a hooked nose interjected to tell her that Falkreath would see it as an attack since Riverwood is technically their territory.

_Then why didn't Gerdur tell me to go to fucking Falkreath instead? _She fumed internally. The Jarl basically told his stewart to shove it up his own ass.

Irileth insisted on sending men to Riverwood, going into a self-righteous tirade that made her breathless. Our protagonist regarded her with more respect. Apparently snarking at a Jarl in Skyrim was nothing to sneeze at, or that was what she had been taught by her mother, who had been to skyrim once, about six years before her birth. Apparently she had broken an overly-touchy jarls fingers after he'd tried to touch her up and had to escape prison.

_Now that I think of it, that may have been the Jarl of Falkreath... Mundus knows she's told everyone with ears that story at least a dozen times._

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><p>Our protagonist was absolutely livid. Down-right enraged. She felt like her very skin was reaching boiling point.<p>

_Fucking Jarls with their Mundus-damned quests and their sleezy shopkeepers and their ugly-ass wizards! _She flung a bottle of watery mead at the wall of the inn. Hulda let a resigned sigh escape her as she had the serving wench clean up the glass and mop up the soiled wall and floor.

The Jarl of Whiterun gave the Dragonborn a job to do. Her first job in this freezing, muddy wasteland called Skyrim. She should be happy, the reward should be handsome, but no, she was fuming at the thought of his very face, among others.

He _had_ to give her the job of cleaning out a dragur-infested barrow _after _she'd sold her sword-paddle-thing. Dragur infested, for Christ's sake! And that sleezy disease-ridden breton Belethor wouldn't give her back her sword. She was _this close _to stealing it back, or maybe a better sword! One that was sharp, possibly, and maybe some decent armor..._  
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_Relax, Fyra, _she cooled herself, downing the last of her grilled salmon, _we don't need to lower ourselves to theivery and assasination, do we?_

Our protagonist didn't know it, but the The Night Mother and Nocturnal were laughing their asses off. _What kinda fucking moron is she?_

Back to the point, though. Fyra had figured out her plan. That woman, Adrianne had let her make a dagger, and keep it no less! She knew she wouldn't be able to sell it for a single measly septim, but if she used that with her magic...

Maybe she wouldn't die immediately.

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><p>The dragonborn's newly-found iron armor clanked as she walked unevenly towards the wordwall. Well, she didn't know it was a wordwall yet, but she will soon enough.<p>

She had stolen the armor off the first bandit she saw guarding Bleak Falls Barrow, in the watchtower. It took her forever to get it on, and changing clothes in the middle of winter is kind of dangerous. Especially with enemies nearby. She'd also stolen his steel sword, which was ten times more effective than her dagger. Fighting past those bandits was a pain in the ass, but the loot made it worth her while.

She didn't know why they called this place Bleak Falls Barrow. There was nothing bleak about it. Many of the walls had ornate carvings in multiple languages, nothing on the ornate-ness of mer creations, but in a simpler way she guessed it was quite beautiful. She'd noticed it going through Whiterun and looking at the architecture. Nords, while savages in her mind, had an appreciation for beauty. A different kind. A rougher beauty, shown on the ornate hinges on their wooden-thatched homes, the designs carved on their forges, and even the label on their worn mead bottles. They paired beauty with crude efficiency.

Fyra couldn't believe the people who made these were the ancestors of those loud and stinky people she'd met in Riverwood and Whiterun.

Our protagonist had the dragon-stone already strapped to her back, and that enchanted sword to her other side. They weighed her exhausted self down like lead in water, and she wanted to curl up on the floor and die, but her mind kept telling her to go closer to the word wall.

When The dragonborn was close enough, a bunch of letters that resembled chicken scratches glowed. Tendrils of energy stretched towards her. She felt something penetrating her mind, the dying breath of the nord who'd hastily scratched his knowledge of the thu'um onto this stone.

**Fus**

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><p><strong>AN: I apologize for not having our little stalker in this chapter, but I wanted to write Fyra because she's so rude, crude and smug. I can't help myself. **


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